Needs Must
by Downdilly
Summary: ...when the Devil drives. Logan's instincts consider Scott and Jean. Sort of. Het mentioned, slash implications. Mood piece, any resemblance to a plot is purely coincidental.


Disclaimer: X-Men is property of Marvel Comics; no money is made from this, just freedom from frustration.

Authors Note: Mood piece, written in a moment of frustration with work and the stupidity of drunk people. Urgh! This is from the original comic series. Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Rating: T for Suggestions of Violence

Pairing: Scott/Jean/Phoenix/, unrequited Logan/Scott

Needs Must

His senses never lied so of course, at first, he thought it was Jean.

The smell of her; perfume and soap, shampoo and skin. Light and sweet in his lungs; taste of heavy cream in his mouth. The feel of her skin against his, when she reached across him, both delicate and rough; the hands of someone not afraid to get them dirty. The flame of her hair, where a too short strand worked its way loose from its confining band and drifted along her neck, fire on snow. All of it mixed with something special, something extra that burned along his nerves like fire running a ridge; a wild, unstoppable flash of heat you could only throw up a fire break and run like hell from.

But although his senses never lied, the information they gave him could be—misinterpreted.

Which he discovered as soon as he met Scott.

The smell of him; musk and soap, shampoo and sweat. Thick and spicy in his lungs; taste of strong brandy in his mouth. The feel of his skin on him, when they fell against each other in mock combat, his hands firm and hard-edged; the hands of someone who knew how to use them. The dark chocolate of his hair, curling softly at his nape when it grew too long, thick syrup on vanilla ice cream. The source of the something special, the something that touched _her_, that turned the fire of his nerves into ice; so cold that falling into it was a painless death too fast for the knowledge to reach your brain until you woke up in hell.

His senses told him they were together; an item, a pair, a couple. Souls of discretion by day, fire and ice exploding in thunder by night. They were passionately in love.

And it was…wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Scott was meant to be _his_, couldn't she see that? Couldn't _he _see that?

He flirted with Jean and fought with Scott. Anything to drive a wedge between the lovers. Anything to focus Scott's attention on himself, if only for a moment, anything to have that specialness of Scott's mix with his own essence. Drove himself crazy the rest of the time, torn between wanting Scott for himself and wanting for Scott whatever Scott wanted. Covered both their backs on missions and prayed to a God he'd only thought he'd forgotten that he'd never be forced to choose.

But when the choice was made, it was Jean who made it. Shielding them all from the heat of re-entry Jean Grey died in the waters of the Atlantic, the ultimate sacrifice made in the name of love and friendship.

The disaster did what years of effort on his part never had; it drove a grieving Scott Summers into his arms. He couldn't do it. Instead he offered booze, companionship, and a shoulder to cry on when needed. He refused to press his advantage, and every night that he stared at his ceiling—alone—he kicked himself for it.

Phoenix rose from Jean's grave, and while she looked like Jean, and talked like Jean, she smelled like burning wire and death. Never before had she displayed the casual cruelty of the predator, used her power with such disregard for those around her. Scott hated it, hated the changes in his lover, and possibly hated himself even more for being unable to stop them.

If she hadn't killed herself, he was more than ready to do it for her.

Her second death was more that Scott could bear. He refused everyone, becoming more distant, rebuffing the most casual words of friendship with enough cold to shatter mountains. Scott's disappearance from the group, from the mansion, grieved them all. They never noticed what Scott had or hadn't taken, so his missing sweatshirt went unremarked.

Then just as suddenly as he left, Scott returned. This Scott was calmer, more at peace with himself, more open to friendship but nothing more. He gave credit and blame to the new woman in Scott's life, a living memory of a dead love. It infuriated him that Scott wouldn't see _he_ could give him that same thing. Scott's mark, his elusive essence, once again slid out of his reach like sand held too tightly in a fist.

His senses, which gave him facts but never truth, told him he raged, furious about the woman who both was and wasn't Jean.

The smell of him was sulfur and brimstone, fire and char. Smoke and acid in his lungs; taste of ashes in his mouth. The feel of his skin burned any who brushed against him; shockingly hot with pain and hate, his hands clenched tight and claws out more often than not. The black brush of his hair bristled stiffly, black as the darkness that moved with him. His pain was the source of his blazing rage; it burned with a fire that would only be quenched in snow or blood, and the snow he longed for was denied him forever.

Another death, and this one he knew Scott would never recover from, too scarred to ever try again. What he needed was out of his reach forever and bound his own heart to a celibate state until death. He consoled himself with the adrenaline rush of battle, courting his own destruction with ever increasing odds.

More and more often he found himself in the snow, rolling—_bathing_—in it, whimpering for the touch of ice to cool the heat that burned inside him. Other times his pain demanded something hot to feed the fire, stoke it higher until he spontaneously combusted.

His senses, which never lied to him no matter how hard he begged them to, told him that his prey was near.

The smell of prey; musk and fear, blood and fur. Dust and darkness in his lungs; taste of hot blood in his mouth. The feel of softness slick against his skin, heated and silky, the sharp beat of strong legs against his chest, claws scrabbling. Gray brush of fur matted down in places by a wet blackness that matched his rage. Life blood; something to feed the heat, to vent the pain by tearing at others flesh when his own healed too quickly.

Ears and tail and heart, left on a white-dusted doorstep. Cooling blood running like trails of chocolate syrup on vanilla ice cream in the dark.

Like fire on snow.


End file.
